


I'm Here For You, Too

by Inofaro



Series: Here For You [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Childhood Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-19 11:44:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20656700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inofaro/pseuds/Inofaro
Summary: Draco Malfoy accidentally uncovers the true nature of his aunt, Bellatrix Lestrange, as well as the still-weeping wound she left him. The same one that's kept his mother, Narcissa Malfoy, doubled over in pain all her life.All Harry can do is hold them close - be there for them - as they start to repair a hurt spanning generations.





	1. A Realization

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warnings for this chapter: Description of non-sexual child abuse (child on child)
> 
> Hi! This is the sequel to "I'm Here for You," which was Harry-centric. There's no need to read it before this one, but it would add more emotional context to this fic. 
> 
> I've already talked through some of my thought process for this fic over on my tumblr (@Inofaro), but succinctly, this fic was inspired by my musings on child abuse and how it almost always emerges within an unhealthy family system. And there's no family unhealthier than the Malfoys. 
> 
> So yeah, this fic is meant to be a character study primarily on Draco and Narcissa, and some of Bellatrix and Harry. I sincerely hope you enjoy it! The rest of the fic is written, and will be posted this coming week.

Draco Malfoy has always been inclined towards brooding. In the half-dark, flame in his face, he sits by the fireplace in a swirl of his own thoughts. Sometimes with wine in hand, catching red in the light. Other times with nothing. 

It’s not solitude that Draco seeks, not its familiar coldness. 

But it’s not a listening ear, either. Not yet, at least.

So when it becomes clear that something is bothering Draco, one week in November, when the chill of fall begins to turn icy and brutal, Harry lets him stew. And stew. And stew some more. Because Harry knows Draco will come to him eventually - but only when he’s ready and not a second before. 

It happens on a Thursday night while they’re clearing the table after a particularly tasty stir-fry dinner.

Draco turns the tap off and pauses. “Harry.”

“Yeah?” 

“I need your advice on something.”

“Do you want to talk on the couch?”

Draco nods, almost mechanically. “Yes. That’s fine.”

They move the party into the sitting room and onto their objectively hideous floral print couch that Harry snagged from a Muggle yard sale half as a joke, and which Draco keeps around out of spite. And because it’s surprisingly comfortable.

Harry takes Draco’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

Draco hesitates, then says, “That’s just the problem - I’m not sure.”

“Start from the beginning, then.”

He takes a deep breath. “You know that I went to visit Mother on Saturday.”

Harry nods.

“Well, Saturday also happened to be Aunt Bellatrix’s birthday.”

Harry sucks in a breath.

“And Mother was, naturally, reminded of her sister. So she talked about her for a little bit.” A pauses. “And she said that she still loves Bellatrix. Even after everything, she still loves her.”

Harry takes Draco’s hands, which are trembling, and says, “That’s...understandable. Family can be illogical, sometimes.” 

Shaking his head, Draco replies, “No, you don’t understand. Then Mother started to talk about her childhood and what it was like growing up with Bellatrix and Harry, it was _ horrible. _”

The words come like they were wrested from Draco by force - hard as stones, and just as punishing. “It was story after story of how she tortured my mother. Fire Leeches in her bed, Stinging Hexes under the dinner table - once, she even set Mother’s hair on fire.” Draco shakes his head, bewildered. “And Mother told me everything with a smile on her face, like she was just reminiscing. Could you believe it?”

“Jesus.”

“I know.” Draco looks as if to say something else, but seems to think better of it.

They sit, unspeaking, for a little while. Something cold has settled around them, like an autumn fog.

Finally, Harry asks, “Did the rest of the family know?” 

“No. Or Mother didn’t think so, at least. If they did, they never said anything.” Draco’s voice goes a little bit wobbly at the end. 

“That’s awful.”

“How could Mother still love her? I just don’t understand.”

Harry tightens his grip on Draco’s hands. “I don’t know either. Family just...can be weird.” Harry thinks about Aunt Petunia, Uncle Dursley, and Dudley. After they reconnected with him and asked for forgiveness two years ago, Harry has since been able to cultivate the saplings of a familial relationship with them - even to the point of inviting them to his and Draco’s wedding - but it hasn’t been all sunshine and flowers. It’s taken hard work and at least a dozen tearful breakdowns in Draco’s arms.

“And-” Draco begins, but abruptly stops, tears rapidly collecting in his eyes. 

Rubbing circles into Draco’s palms, Harry waits for his husband to collect his thoughts.

“It was...hard. To listen to all of it.” A heavy pause. “Because it was so familiar. Bellatrix she-she-did all of that to me.”

Harry stills, his heart pounding into his ears. 

His head tilted up, face twisted, eyes searching, Draco waits.

_ Bellatrix is lucky she’s dead, because Merlin knows if she were still alive- _

“Harry?” 

Words brim at the top of Harry’s tongue, threatening to spill like froth after a wave, but for some reason, nothing gets out.

“Harry, it’s okay.” Draco cups Harry’s face. The tears that were in his eyes earlier have all but disappeared. 

“No,” his voice a growl, “it’s not okay.” Harry throws his arms around Draco and squeezes tightly. “It’s not okay at all.”

“It’s been so long, and I’d practically forgotten about it anyways…”

“That doesn’t change the fact that she did horrible things to you. And, God-your _ mother. _ ” Harry sits back, stunned. “Narcissa _ knew.” _

Grimacing, Draco doesn’t speak, just turns his head away.

“She knew and she did _ nothing. _”

A thin, feeble whisper, Draco says, “Maybe she didn’t _ really _know.”

“Yeah, well, maybe she didn’t know what was happening to _ you, _but she definitely knew what her sister was capable of. And she still took that risk letting her be around you.”

“She loves me. She loves me,” Draco says, shaking his head.

A whisper: “I know. That’s what makes it so painful, right?”

Draco buries his head into Harry’s chest so forcefully that it knocks him breathless. Slow and heavy breathing, then - sobs. Like a shower of stars, Draco’s tears come rare and fast and shining.

Harry can’t remember a time when he thought his uncle, aunt, and cousin were in the right, but he does understand what it feels like to want to defend them anyways. 

_ Maybe if I downplay it, the reality won’t be as serious, either. _

_ Maybe if I omit some details, it’ll be like they never happened. _

_ Maybe if I say “I’m sure they loved me, deep down,” it will come true. _

His Mind Healer told him during their first session together - after Harry spent thirty minutes hashing out, then backtracking through his own memories - “You love them, Harry, I can see that from the way you keep trying to protect them. But the truth is, I’m not here to pass judgement on what they did. That has to come from you. My job is to make you feel safe enough to do so.”

Harry tightens his embrace. Draco is warm. The room is warm. The sun has set and fog hasn’t quite lifted, but there is still something burning, here, between them.

“I-I’m sorry,” Draco hiccups, “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Harry murmurs.

“This must be pissing you off so much…”

A beat.

Pulling back, “What?”

“I mean - you must think this is all so...dumb. She didn’t even live with us. It was only an occasional thing and even during the War when she was there at the Manor she was busy with other things anyways and you were _ starved _and it’s just.” He pauses to take a breath. “Not the same.”

“You’re right, it’s not the same.” Harry presses a kiss to Draco’s forehead. It’s sweaty, but familiar on Harry’s lips. “But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

There is no response, only the slight shaking of Draco’s head, as if he didn’t hear anything, as if he wouldn’t be able to hear anything ever again.

“Listen, Draco.”

He hesitates. “I’m listening.” 

“This isn’t a competition. Awful things happened to me, so I need help. Awful things happened to you, too, and so you also need help.”

“You don’t have to help me. I-This…” Draco’s head drops. “This is a lot to ask of you.”

“That’s what Mind Healers are for.”

“I…”

Harry takes Draco’s hand - it’s rough and scarred now, from years of volunteering at the National Scottish Dragon Reserve, but Harry wouldn’t have it any other way. “Just think about it,” he says, “it helps. I promise you it helps.”

They are silent for a moment as Draco worries at his bottom lip.

Finally: “Okay. I’ll consider it.”

“I’m proud of you,” Harry says, the last part of his sentence getting muffled as he presses his mouth to Draco’s still-wet cheek.

They stay like that for a while, limbs intertwined, speaking only when there is something to say.

It’s surreal, Harry thinks, to be on the other side of the glass, to be the one giving comfort in the relationship. He struggles against guilt -_ why did I take up so much space over the years? why did I demand so much? _\- as if compassion is a currency to be squabbled over. 

“Hey,” Harry whispers, nudging Draco, who’s slowly but surely nodding off in his arms.

“Mm, hey.” Right arm, left arm, Draco stretches and pops his neck. 

“Tired, huh?” Harry can’t keep the smile out of his voice.

“Maybe a bit.”

“Bed time?”

“Yes.” Slowly, leisurely, Draco extricates himself from Harry’s embrace and stands, stretching out his legs. “Let’s go, sleepyhead.”

“Oh? _ I’m _the sleepyhead?”

He scoffs. “Have you looked at yourself? You’re a wreck, Potter.”

“I’m gonna get you for that one.” Harry calls as Draco dashes out of the room, towards the stairs, his light laughter floating through the house.

There is much to be done, tomorrow. And the day after, and the day after that. But one of the hardest parts of the process is already over with, and Harry knows that Draco, as he does in the face of all challenges - cooking, Dragon Handling, loving Harry - will learn quickly, excel, and still manage to teach Harry a thing or two.


	2. A Confrontation

_ The next spring. _

“Are you sure about this? You don’t have to stay, if you-”

“Of course I am.” Harry says, interrupting his husband. “Come on, let’s go. She’s waiting.” 

With a tug, Draco reluctantly allows himself to be led by the hand down the hallway on the third floor, down to the door at the end with the nameplate reading, in gold lettering:  _ Malfoy.  _

Harry presses the doorbell with his other hand, and they wait. 

The door opens. “Draco, Harry,” Narcissa greets them, her voice warm and her arms pulling them in for a group hug. She pulls back to look both of them up and down. “You two look well. Oh- is that what I think it is?”

Somewhat weakly, Draco smiles and lifts up the bottle in question. “Your favorite. 1990.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she says, pressing her hands to her mouth. She has the ring on, Harry notices - the one that Draco told him was passed down patrilineally through the Black family, from the fathers to their male heirs.  _ Since Cygnus - my grandfather - only had daughters, it went to Bellatrix, instead,  _ Draco said,  _ And then, to my mother, after her sister died.  _

When Draco turned of age in the Pureblood custom - thirty years old - Narcissa offered him the ring. But he refused.  _ You should hold on to it for now,  _ he told her.

“It’s not a problem, I know how much you like it, Mother,” Draco says smoothly, knocking Harry out of his thoughts.

They step through the threshold and enter Narcissa Malfoy’s London apartment. It’s by no means a spacious place - the price for something like that would have been vault-breaking, even by Malfoy standards - but it’s enough for one woman and the occasional houseguest. 

The design is older fashioned, all woods and marble and paisley upholstery, but it’s homey. Pictures - both Muggle and Wizard - line the walls and crowd every surface: there are ones of Draco, Draco and Harry, Andromeda - whom Narcissa reconnected with several years ago - and Teddy. 

There’s not much left of the Manor in the apartment, except for the portrait of Lucius in Narcissa’s bedroom, and the odd knick-knack or old family relic here and there. 

“Sorry for the mess,” Narcissa tells them over her shoulder as she leads them to the sitting room, “I’ve been reorganizing a little bit.” She sets the bottle of wine on the kitchen table when they pass it. 

Looking around, Harry cannot find a single thing out of place.

Harry and Draco take a seat on the loveseat together, while Narcissa retires to her favorite seat - a throne-like chair with ornate detailing in the wood. 

“So, to what do I owe this pleasure?” She asks, getting right down to business. 

As she’s aged, Narcissa’s hardened. Her grey - grey eyes, grey hair - like steel now, but it’s not a loss. Rather: a gain of something only time can give. Time, and two wars.

She’s well-versed in Muggle ways now, having learned to drive and to take the metro, among other things. She’s even taken up a Muggle boxing class, which sent Harry into a coughing fit the first time she told him. She promptly offered to show him a few moves, but he respectfully turned her down, slightly fearing for his life.

“Well, Mother.” Draco pauses. Harry takes his hand again, which became clammy at some point. “There’s something I would like to discuss with you.”

A pause. “As you know, I’ve been seeing a Mind Healer.”

Narcissa nods solemnly. She never asked why, but her curiosity shone out of her.

“And we’ve been talking about some things that happened during my childhood and that’s what I’d like to talk to you about today.” He takes a breath. “But only if you promise to listen all the way through, with no interruptions.”

A bewildered look has taken up residence on Narcissa’s normally stoic, restrained face. “I-er-yes.” She smoothes the front of her dress. “Yes, I promise.”

Draco doesn’t speak immediately - just sits with his eyes screwed shut and a muscle jumping in his jaw. Harry begins massaging his knuckles as a reminder that he is here - solid and real.

“You and my father were good to me, growing up. I was fed and clothed and cared for - and was very lucky in that respect. But even still, some very bad things happened to me as a child and as a teen.”

“Do you remember Bellatrix and her husband’s visits to the Manor?” Narcissa nods. “Well, while you weren’t looking, Bellatrix was hurting me. She teased me, called me names, humiliated me for everything from my hair to my face to my weight. She would hex me in places that wouldn’t show. When I didn’t listen to her, or when I fought back, she would spell me up by my ankles and keep me like that for hours. “

“Once,” Draco continues, though his voice is getting thick with emotion, “during that trip to Majorca - you must remember - while you, Father, and Uncle were swimming further off, and it was just me and Bellatrix, she-um-she forced me under.” He clears his throat. “As a joke. But then she wouldn’t let go.”

“I could hear her above the water, talking to me. Saying that if I didn’t get up by myself, she would  _ Crucio  _ me, and that, even if I screamed, no one would be able to hear me through the water.”

Harry knows that Draco’s abuse was severe, but he’s never known any details - until now. And even after years of working with abused Magical and Muggle youth, listening to the most horrifying and wretched stories every single day, Harry still finds himself shaken. 

Partly because of the content - how violent and despicable Bellatrix’s actions were - and partly because it’s  _ Draco.  _ These things happened to  _ Draco,  _ and that makes a world of difference.

Her face devoid of the little color it usually has, Narcissa breathes, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Holding up a hand, Draco says, “Please, let me finish.” He takes a moment to collect himself.

“The worst of it was during the War. When she was living at the Manor full-time, with...with Voldemort.” Narcissa’s eyes widen at the name, but she doesn’t flinch. Not anymore. “She was in my head, all the time. Always looking for a fault or a stray thought. Always looking for a reason to punish me.”

He breathes deep, shuddering at the memory. “It’s thanks to Snape that I learned Occlumency, but it was a long time before I could truly keep her out. When she figured out what I was trying to do,” he winces, “she threatened to keep me under  _ Imperius  _ for the rest of my life. And she tried it, too.”

His next words falter a bit, dropping down to a murmur: “There are still some parts of that time that I don’t remember. Those memories are just...gone.”

“Oh, Draco,” Narcissa whispers, raising her hands as if to reach out, before dropping them back into her lap.

“And really, what I came here to talk about today is  _ you,  _ not Bellatrix.” Her head jerks up. “I want to talk about what you did. Did not do.”

Draco had warned Harry beforehand - told him that this part of the conversation might rile Narcissa up, and that her reaction might be unpredictable. So Harry was prepared for her to talk back, to interrupt, to deny - maybe even get angry - but all she does is sit back. And stare at her son, face caved in.

“Last fall, when I happened to visit you on Bellatrix’s birthday, you spoke about her at some length. It became clear to me that your experiences with her were similar to mine.”

Draco’s hand twitches in Harry’s. “You can’t even feign ignorance. You knew the kind of person your sister was - maybe more so than the rest of your family. And yet you did nothing.” 

Even Harry winces at the loaded accusation, but Narcissa still sits, unmoving.

“You never intervened. You never investigated. You never told me anything. I felt alone and trapped. And resentful, at you and Father, for welcoming her with open arms into our house without any regard for my feelings.”

“Even after she died, I couldn’t get over it. I see why now. I was plagued by memories, but above all, by the way she conditioned me - to be silent, to be small, to be compliant.”

Draco takes a deep breath. “But the thing that hurt the most wasn’t what she did to me. It was the thought that you knew, and still let it happen.” 

Quietly, Narcissa begins to cry. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Even when in tears, she commands something - not quite respect, but not quite pity, either. It almost pisses Harry off. “What do you want from me? What do you want me to do?” 

Draco doesn’t seem to let her crying throw him off. He stays on script. “You’ve given me your apology, but I also want an acknowledgement of your inactions. And the damage they caused. And going forward, I want us to be more honest with each other.”

For a long time, Narcissa just cries. Everytime she looks as if she’s about to speak, she dissolves into them again. Her handkerchief grows sopping wet. Everytime she uses it to dab at her eyes, her ring catches the light and glints. 

But Draco waits patiently, showing no sign of frustration on his face. And, although Harry personally has a few choice words for Narcissa, he holds it in for Draco. And because it simply isn’t his place. Even if he  _ really  _ thinks she’s just angling for pity to escape responsibility, at this point.

“Y-you’re right,” she finally begins after calming down a touch, “I’m sorry. I can’t say it enough, but I really mean it. I did something horrible, letting that monster into our house. I exposed you to harm. I was too careless.”

“You have to understand - I knew what she was capable of, but I never thought-” she swallows, “I never thought she would harm  _ you. _ ”

She brings a shaky hand to her cheek. “She-what she did to me-I thought she had grown out of it. After our father passed, at least.” 

“He never like Bellatrix - we all knew it. She was beautiful and every bit his Pureblood child, but he still didn’t like her. Didn’t love her. I still don’t know why. He was harder on her than me or Andromeda - always berating her, scolding her. It was like nothing she ever did was enough.” 

“But I was his favorite. Even when I was young, I felt the special treatment, but there was nothing I could do.” Narcissa shrugs half-heartedly with a faint smile on her lips. “Any little girl would love the attention.”

“At the time, I couldn’t see it, but as an adult it’s so obvious: Bellatrix was  _ jealous.  _ I think she felt that, since Father wasn’t punishing me enough - or as much as he did her - it was her job to make up the deficit. And she did so with relish.”

Suddenly, Narcissa’s demeanor changes; her knuckles whiten where they’re gripping the arms of the chair and a flush rises to her face. “I was the same as you. I would cry myself to sleep every night - not because of what she had done to me that day, but because of how my mother, my father, and Andromeda did nothing. How they went about their day, unknowing. Or worse: uncaring.”

“It’s a pain I am all too well acquainted with. To think that I exposed you to - no -  _ was the cause  _ of the same thing in you. You, my son, Draco-” She cuts herself off, choking on her tears and sobbing into her handkerchief. The earlier rage dissipates as quickly as it manifested. 

While she cries, Draco turns his head and locks eyes with Harry - just for a moment - before turning away again. Harry presses a kiss in the palm of Draco’s hand - the one he’s been holding the entire time. His fingers curl, slightly.

A minute or two goes by as Narcissa regains her composure. Clearing her throat, she says, voice still raspy, “I’m sorry. This isn’t about me. I don’t mean to derail, simply - about what you said earlier, about being honest with each other.” She manages a teary smile. “I’d like that. I’m really willing to try.”

Draco bows his head. “I appreciate it, and also everything you said. It-it clears some things up for me. So thank you.”

She holds out her arms. “I understand if you don’t want it, but would you allow me a hug, my son?” Her face is apologetic, her smile like something brought back to life.

“Of course.”

He crosses the room in the flash - almost as if he’d been waiting for this moment - kneels in front of his mother, and throws his arms around her. For the first time in the entire, intimate conversation, Harry feels like he’s intruding.

They embrace for a long time. In the meantime, Harry busies himself with fiddling at his shirt hem.

Finally: “I should go,” Draco says, standing up.

“Ah-yes.” Narcissa stands, too, and smoothes down her dress - to no avail, it’s horribly wrinkled and riddled with teary wet spots, but she doesn’t seem too bothered. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for lunch?”

“We shouldn’t. We have some-uh-prior commitments.”

Draco had purposely cleared his schedule to be here, and told Harry to do the same. But Harry’s glad they’re leaving. Something’s changed. Something that was hidden has been named at last, and it makes him want to run - at least until what was kicked up settles back down.

“I see.” A beat. “Harry, could I have a word before you go?”

Harry looks to Draco, but the latter simply shrugs slightly and says, “Meet me in the hallway, then?” Harry nods stiffly. “Alright. Good bye, then.” And with one last kiss pressed to his mother’s cheek, Draco’s out of the room. Harry hears the click of the front door a moment later. Reluctantly, he turns to face Narcissa.

As far as mother-in-laws go, Harry’s pretty sure he’s got a pretty decent one. When they got married, Harry was convinced that Narcissa bore some hidden resentment towards him - for taking her darling son away, for being a constant reminder of the War, for not being a white, Pureblood girl - the possible origins of her discontent were endless. 

At the very least, he thought that, even if she did tolerate him, she would never truly come to love him. Maybe she could come to like him, it would only be because he meant so much to her darling son - or something like that. 

But he was wrong. Completely wrong.

Standing facing the window, Narcissa rests one hand - the one sporting the ring that Harry’s been staring at all morning - on the back of her chair, and does not turn to meet Harry’s eyes as she speaks. “I’m sorry you had to sit through that.”

“It’s no problem. I did it for Draco.”

“You’ve witnessed something...unsightly. I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be,” Harry says simply.

She laughs at that, a light thing. “Yes, I suppose I shouldn’t be. It’s not like you're an outsider.” A pause. And a tone shift: “You know, when I was younger - in my twenties - I was different.”

Her shoulders taut, like string the moment before it breaks. “Rage. All I felt was rage - at everything in the world. My job. My friends. My clothes. My body. My boyfriends. I lashed out at everything. But not my family.”

“No, never my family.” She turns, then, to face Harry. The look she levels on him is steely and dry. “They were all I had. I loved them with all my heart. But the contradiction between what I felt for them and how they treated me killed me inside. It just fueled my fire.”

She walks to Harry and clasps both of his hands. “Please, Harry, keep an eye on Draco. I may already be too late but - please, don’t let him end up like me.”

Harry covers her hand with his own, and almost starts at the cool metal of the ring. “Trust me.”

“I do.”

They let go of each other and step away.

“Listen-” Harry hesitates, wondering if he should. But the pain is real, there, real as the cold brush of metal. Now that he’s felt it, Harry can’t let it go. “What happened to you - that wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.”

Her smile is thin. “Life rarely is.”

“Still. You should consider seeing someone. It helped me, and it helped Draco.”

She waves a hand, saying, “I’m much too old for something like that.”

“Trauma doesn’t go away with age.” Harry shrugs. “The possibility of recovery doesn’t, either. It’s just something to consider.” He heads for the door, hands in his pockets.

“Wait.”

He pauses and looks back. Narcissa’s stand there with her arms open wide.

“Did you think you could escape?” She asks, eyes twinkling.

Harry laughs and they hug and kiss each other’s cheeks - before he pulls away, she whispers in his ear: “Thank you.”

And then they part.

Her hand waving him off - glinting, glinting under the light.

“Took you long enough,” Draco huffs when Harry steps out of the apartment and shuts the door. 

“Sorry, sorry.”

“What did she want?”

Harry puts a finger to his lips. “That’s confidential.”

Draco swats his shoulder. “Twat.”

“How are you feeling?” 

Their fingers interlace naturally, easily. “I’m okay.” Draco heaves a sigh. “It could’ve gone worse.”

“Hey, what matters is that you did it, right?”

“Yes, right.”

“Draco,” Harry says. Draco looks at him. “I’m proud of you.”

A flush rises to his cheeks. “...Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

They exit the apartment building and step out into London in spring - which is a fancy way of saying it’s still cold as balls, but not for long, now.

“Now, on to the real and totally not made-up-on-the-spot ‘prior commitments’ that we had lined up.”

Draco pushes Harry, and just for dramatic effect, Harry pretends to stumble, almost stepping off the sidewalk. Several other pedestrians cast him annoyed looks, but Draco and Harry barely notice - too busy laughing at each other.

Harry feels a little lighter. And when he takes Draco’s hand again, he notices a change there, too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sincerely hope you enjoyed this chapter, and if you did or are interested in the thought process behind it, check out my tumblr @Inofaro, where I have a log of how I wrote each chapter. Next and last chapter will likely come this weekend.


	3. Another Confrontation

_ Late summer. _

The drive to Myrddin’s Wood is uneventful.

Narcissa had suggested the road trip - a scenic route along the coast, highway and cliffs, blue sky and clotting earth. Draco offered to direct her, but she refused.  _ I know where I’m going,  _ she told him.

They arrive around mid-morning. Myrddin’s Wood is a humble place, to Harry’s surprise. No towering mansions, no rolling green lawns - just squat cottages and glimpses of overgrown vegetable gardens out back. 

“The Wars,” Narcissa explains, looking at him through the rearview mirror. “The men left first. And then, the women.” She makes a turn, still looking both ways even though they haven’t seen a single car since they entered the town. “They were women’s wars, too.”

Harry studies her. The admission of her own culpability doesn’t seem to shake her. Then again, nothing seems to nowadays.

“Is that it?” Draco asks, pointing.

Harry looks and sees the tree, first - it’s massive at the trunk and tall, too, with branches upon branches intertwining with no fear of knotting. Below, in its shade, stand dozens - maybe even hundreds - of gravestones. 

“Yes.” Narcissa pulls into the empty parking lot and parks the car. They step out and head for the ornate gate which, upon closer inspection, seems to depict a narrative of a snake turning into a dragon - all in wrought iron.

The hinges squeak in protest as Narcissa pushes the gate door open. “Follow me.” She heads toward the right corner of the graveyard, where a small cluster of gravestones stand.

“The Lestrange family did not always bury their kin here,” Narcissa explains while leading them through the rows and rows of headstones. Many of them are faded, the actual stone worn down by the elements. Not a single one of them sports flowers at their base. “They began the tradition a few generations ago, when Myrddin’s Wood become too iconic to ignore.”

“Merlin lived here, right?” Harry asks.

Draco answers, “Yes. And so did his descendants.”

They arrive at one of the newer graves. It reads, in sloping cursive reminiscent of a hundred writhing snakes:  _ Bellatrix Lestrange, 1951-1998, Daughter, Sister, Wife.  _

“This is it.” Narcissa takes a deep breath, then turns to Draco and Harry with a strained smile. “I’ll just be over there, so call me when you’re done.” And with that, she walks away, towards the central tree. 

Once she’s out of earshot, Harry starts, “Should I-”

“No.” Draco lays a hand on Harry’s cheek. “Please, stay.”

“Of course.” So Harry stays put here, beside his husband.

Draco clears his throat. “Hello, Bellatrix. I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here, visiting you for the first time since your funeral.”

Her headstone is grey and silent. “Well, as it turns out, I’ve been doing some thinking - which I’m sure displeases you, as it always has. But I don’t care anymore. I know better to care, now.” His voice starts shaking, but his eyes remain dry. 

“You did awful things to me. You bullied me, you abused me, and you destroyed the innocence of my childhood.”

Once spoken, his words become like live wire, strung up in the air around them. “When you told me that I was a horrible kid, that I was unlovable, you were lying, but I was still hurt. I was a child - I didn’t know any better than to believe you.”

“What you said and did to me destroyed me, but I didn’t even realize it for a long time. I…” Draco falters for the first time, casting Harry a small glance. “I struggled to love others and to receive it. You were always in the back of mind, haunting me. Sabotaging me.”

Their hands interlock. “I’m lucky that I was surrounded by good people. I’m lucky they were so patient with me.” Draco beams at Harry, and leans in for a kiss. Harry obliges, feeling as though it’s Draco’s most radical act, so far.

When they break apart, Draco becomes somber again. “Bellatrix, you can’t control me now. Whatever power you used to hold over me crumbled once I realized what a pathetic, cowardly person you were.”

“So this is goodbye. I’m going to live my life, and I’m going to be happy.”

The speech wasn’t an attack - it had an edge, yet a bluntness. It was a glint of anger, a flash of danger before the worst was sheathed. Draco didn’t come on the offensive; he left the war altogether. 

Draco looks to Harry, his face shining. “Let’s go.”

Harry nods, and the two walk away, towards Narcissa, who’s seated cross-legged under the tree. She waves as they approach. “Finished?” 

“Yes.”

“Well,” she says while standing and brushing off the stray pieces of grass clinging to her blue jeans, “I suppose it’s my turn. Do you two mind watching my purse?” Her small handbag - the one she bought while on a Muggle shopping trip with Harry a few years ago - lies in the grass beside where she sat.

“Of course, Mother. Take your time,” Draco says. The mother-son pair exchange a kiss on the cheek, and Narcissa squeezes Harry’s arm, before she’s off to Bellatrix’s grave.

“Do you think she’ll be alright?” Draco asks. They take a seat, reveling in the shade of the tree. 

“Yeah.” Harry says, watching Narcissa’s back. “She will.”

She speaks to Bellatrix for a long time - gesturing with her hands from time to time, at one point just standing silently, staring at the dirt of the grave. There is no shouting, no dramatic climax and storming away. But there are no tears, either. If Harry didn’t know any better, he would think that she’s chatting about the weather.

At the end, she takes something small out of her pocket, places it on her sister’s headstone, and bows briefly before taking her leave.

“Sorry to keep you two waiting.” She recollects her handbag. Harry studies her face, but finds no seam to pry open. “Would you like to see the Blacks and the Malfoys?”

Harry starts. “I didn’t know…” He trails off.

Narcissa smiles knowingly. “Yes. We were one of the first families to begin the tradition. My father used to lord it over the other, less established Pureblood families at social gatherings.” 

Draco scoffs. “Always with the pointless hierarchies.”

“Indeed.”

They walk a little ways - to the opposite corner of the graveyard - and Harry immediately sees the difference. 

The headstones in this are are tall, the actual dimensions of the graves bigger, some of them seemingly capable of fitting more than one occupant. Many of them sport intricate designs as well - marble sculptures of wizards and witches, of dragons, of serpents. They stare as Harry passes by. He hurries a little, to keep up with Narcissa and Draco.

“As you can see, ostentation is in our blood,” Narcissa jokes.

“No kidding,” Harry mutters.

They approach a patch of relatively newer graves, and stop. “Here we are,” Narcissa says, gesturing, “That’s Cygnus Black III, my father, on the right. And my mother, Druella Black, on the left.” She turns and points a little bit further down. “Lucius is down there, but Draco you remember, don’t you?”

Draco nods, slowly approaching the graves of his grandparents. Their headstones seem to be marble likenesses of themselves, facing each other, with inscriptions at the base naming them. 

“Do you miss them?” The look on Draco’s face when he turns his head is raw - that of a child, afraid of the answer but desperately curious.

Narcissa hesitates. “Yes.”

“Even after everything?”

More resolute this time: “Yes.”

No one speaks for several long moments. The heat has set in now, making Harry sweat.

“My parents weren’t perfect. They were even more conservative than me or Lucius, and it strangled them.” Narcissa closes her eyes. “Maybe-” she begins, but stops. “Maybe if they were more open, none of this would have happened.”

Narcissa continues, sounding faraway: “Yes, I remember now. My father hated Bellatrix’s black hair.” She lets out a small huff of laughter. “Such a small thing to obsess over. He was fine with Andromeda’s brown, but the black drove him over the edge. He didn’t think it was how a true Pureblood woman should look. I think he thought my mother had cheated. It ruined their marriage.”

Harry scowls at the statuette of Cygnus - white and unmoving.  _ If it weren’t for you,  _ he can’t help thinking, as if raging at ghosts will undo anything.

Draco seems to be on the same page; clenching his fists, he practically growls, “Damn him. Damn him and all his precious, “Pureblood” fantasies.” He gestures widely. “Who knows how many of these “right and proper” families were the same? Bullying anyone who doesn’t fit? Abusing in the name of “tradition?” 

Narcissa closes her eyes, but says nothing. 

Draco kicks at the stretch of dirt between his grandparents’ graves and says, dark and low, “Fuck them, and fuck the poison they fed us.” With that, he walks away, towards his father’s grave.

It’s just Narcissa and Harry there, for a moment, and the silence is heavy without Draco’s anger to buoy it.

Harry breaks it, though, because he knows he must eventually: “Let’s go.”

Narcissa’s voice comes like a sigh. “Yes,” she says, and then they go, following Draco.

Lucius’s grave is the only one in the general Black/Malfoy area that looks visibly cared for - there is little leaf litter, and his headstone is polished with its inscription clear:  _ Lucius Malfoy, 1953-2004, Respected Son, Husband, Son, and Friend.  _

Since he died in Azkaban, Narcissa and Draco have been periodically visiting his grave. Well, mostly Narcissa. Draco’s always made excuses -  _ My schedule is simply too full, Mother; Oh today’s no good, I’ve got plans with Harry; I’m out of the country and the Portkey back isn’t until tomorrow, what terrible timing -  _ but Harry knows the truth. And he strongly suspects Narcissa does, too. 

Narcissa walks up and joins her son, and the two stare down at the grave. Harry lingers behind. 

Draco didn’t cry when Lucius died. Neither did Harry. 

Draco went to the funeral. Harry did not.

But that night, when Draco came back home, he sat down next to Harry on their ugly couch and told him: “I’m not sad.”

Harry replied with, “That’s okay.”

And so it was. 

The mother and son pair speak in low tones for a few brief minutes, before Narcissa conjures a bouquet of flowers and places them in front of her dead husband’s headstone. Begrudgingly, Draco sends a shower of water from his wand onto the flowers, making them glisten in the sun, and Narcissa turns to beam at him.

“Ready to leave?” She asks Harry brightly.

“Yeah. Draco?”

“Hm.”

“Are you ready to go?” 

“Yes. Let’s get out of this place.”

The iron gate creaks closed behind them as they walk out, toward the parked car. After climbing in, fiddling with the AC so it’s blasting at full strength, the three of them are gone - flying down the narrow roads toward home. As they go, this conversation plays out, just above the soft jazz on the radio:

“Draco?”

“Yes, mother?”

“Are you happy?”

The world outside the car is merely a blur of paint, green and dripping. Harry is nodding off with the sun on his face.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t, either.”

Harry’s slipping, slipping away. Distantly, he registers Draco’s warm hand sliding in his.

“But I will be.”

“Yes.” Smile in her voice: “We will be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all, folks! Hope you enjoyed this little sequel. If you want to learn more about the process of writing this fic, check out my tumblr @Inofaro! 
> 
> 'Til next time!


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